I am Nicholas Kotar, fantasy author and Orthodox deacon, and you’re listening to In a Certain Kingdom. This is a podcast where I tell famous—and not-so-famous—Slavic fairy tales and myths and where I share my fascination and love for the stories that help us better see and live in the real world. This is episode 10, the tale of the fisherman and the fish.

An old fisherman lived with his wife at the banks of the deep blue sea. They lived in a crumbling mud hut for years. Count them up: thirty and three. The old man trawled for his fish, and his baba sat spinning her yarn. One morning, he tossed in his net, but the net brought him nothing but mud. Another fine morning, the same: still the net brought him seaweed and brine. But a third day, the fisherman cast, and the fisherman’s net brought a treasure: not a guppy or pike, but a marvel! ‘Twas a fish with gold scales, and it talked to him in a voice that was human and ringing, “Let me go, old man, back to the sea! I will grant you a marvelous boon; what your heart desires I will give it in spades.”

The old fisherman jumped in amazement. For years, he had trawled these shores and never once had he heard a fish peep. So he threw the gold fish to the depths. And the words that he said were gentle, “God be with you, you gold marvel. I need no boon from you. Go on, swim away to the deep. Enjoy the free waters of home.”

Then the old man came back to his woman, and he told her the marvelous news. “You won’t believe what happened today! I caught a bright fish, a golden fish. It talked with a voice like a man’s. It begged me to let it go back to its home. It even told me it would grant me a boon, a gift, any gift that my heart would desire, but I dared not take it up on its offer, and I threw the gold fish back to the deep.”

But his wife exploded in anger. “You stupid oaf! You blockhead! You had the gift in your hands, but, no! The least you could do was to get me a trough: our own is in splinters and slivers!”

And the fisherman came to the shore, and the waves were a little unruly. He called out to the golden fish, and the fish swam up and asked him, “How can I help you, old man?”

With a bow to the waist, he spoke. “Have mercy on me, golden fish. My old woman has scolded me sore. She won’t leave me in peace and quiet. A new trough, she insists that I ask for. Our own is in splinters and slivers.”

And the gold fish spoke again to him. “Oh, don’t be sad, but go home with God. You have your new, shiny trough.”

The fisherman trudged back to his baba, and she had a new trough already. But the old woman only screamed louder, “You stupid oaf! You blockhead! Why did you just ask for a trough? What profit is there in a basin? Go back, you simpleton, to your golden fish, and tell her we need a new house!”

The old fisherman slogged to the shore, and the waves were no longer so calm. He called out to the golden fish, and the fish swam up and asked him, “How can I help you, old man?”

With a bow to the waist, he spoke. “Have mercy on me, gold fish. My old woman has scolded me more. She won’t leave my old head in peace. That shrewish old hag wants a house.”

And the golden fish spoke again to him. “Oh, don’t be sad, but go home with God. So be it, she’ll have her new house.”

The fisherman walked to his mud hut, but instead there’s a house with an attic, with a new brick-and-mortar stovepipe and with gates made from columns of oak. The old woman sat under the window, and like nothing on earth she screeched, “You stupid oaf! What a blockhead! You asked for a house from your fishy!? Go back, foolish oaf, to your precious fish. I don’t want to be bound to the land any more. I want to be a gentlewoman of high renown.”

The old fisherman lumbered to the shore, and the waves did a white, foaming dance. He called aloud to the golden fish, and the fish swam up and asked him, “How can I help you, old man?”

With a bow to the waist, he spoke. “Have mercy on me, golden fish. My old woman has scolded me silly. She won’t leave my old head in peace. To be bound to the land, she refuses; she insists to be raised to the gentry.”

And the golden fish spoke again to him. “Don’t be sad, but go home with God.”

The old fisher went home to his hag—but what’s this? A palace with storeys, and his woman reclining on the doorstep, wrapped up in a jacket of sable. On her head shone a cloth-of-gold hat, pearls like stones hung heavy on her chest, golden rings adorned her fingers, and a pair of red boots decked her feet. At her right and left hand cowered servants, and she beat them and tugged at their forelocks. The old man spoke aloud in wonder. “Good morrow… Madame-lady-noblewoman. I imagine your heart is now at peace?”

But the hag only shrieked only louder. To the stables she sent her own husband. So a week went by, and another, but the hag only swelled with rage. She sent the old fisherman back. “Go back! Bow deeply to your fish of gold, and insist that my lot’s not sufficient. To be queen of this land I desire.”

But the fisherman quailed and complained. “Have you finally lost all your marbles? You can’t walk, you can’t talk without shaming yourself! The whole kingdom will laugh and deride you!”

But the hag only screamed even louder, and she slapped her dear man on the face. “How dare you dispute with a lady of means? Go on to the shore, or I swear by all holies my servants will drag your stiff heels.”

The old fisherman lumbered to the shore, and the waves were a roiling, black mass. He called aloud to the golden fish, and the fish swam up and asked him, “How can I help you, old man?”

With a bow to the waist, he spoke. “Have mercy on me, golden fish! My old woman has lost all her marbles. She won’t leave my old head in peace. Not content with the lot of the gentry, she insists on the throne of a queen.”

And the golden fish spoke again to him. “Don’t be said. Go home with God.”

The old fisher came back to his hag. Not a home did he see, but a palace, and inside there he saw his old lady on a throne with a crown on her head. All around her the nobles were kneeling and the servants poured wine in a goblet. In her hand was a cake with a stamp on it. Bristling guards stood alert all around her, each leaning an axe on his shoulder. The fisherman saw it and was frightened. He fell to his knees at her footstool and said, “Hail, Highness most terrible! Surely now you’re content with your lot.”

But his wife didn’t spare him a glance, only barked that the trash be tossed out. The noblemen scurried to listen, and grabbed the old man by the scruff, while the guards, with their axes and clubs, nearly took his poor head from his shoulders. And the people outside only scoffed at him: “Get away to your hovel, you simpleton! Here’s a word to the wise, if you’ll listen. Don’t sit in a throne that’s not yours!”

So a week went by, and another, but the hag only railed the more. She sent for her husband, the fisher, and they found him and dragged him to her, and the hag deigned to speak to her husband. “Go back, bow low to your fishy, and insist that my lot’s not sufficient. To be queen of this land, I deplore. To be queen of the sea I desire, to live and breathe in the deep blue ocean and to have for my servant the golden fish to go back and forth at my bidding!”

The fisherman dared not oppose her nor to speak any word in rebuke. There he goes to the shores of the sea, and he sees how the waves are like towers. A gale is howling; a storm is a-brewing! He called aloud to the golden fish, and the fish swam up and asked him, “How can I help you, old man?”

With a bow to the waist, he spoke. “Have mercy on me, golden fish. What to do with my shrew of a wife? Not content to be queen of this land, now she wants to be queen of the sea, so that you would be slave to her fancies, to go back and forth at her bidding.”

But the fish answered him not a word, merely flicking the waves with her tail. And she went to the depths of the sea.

The old man stood an age in suspense till he gave up and came home in shame. But look—in its place stood his hut. On the threshold of dirt sat his woman, bending over a broken trough.

As I record this final episode of season one of In a Certain Kingdom, the whole country is in a tense state of watchfulness, expectation as the results of the presidential election continue to dribble in. I acknowledge this reality not because I want to espouse any particular political point of view, I do it simply to point out that this is something that is unusual, important, and to set the stage for something I think many people will agree with.

I think everybody will agree that this isn’t simply a strange time. We’re living in a time of rapid—maybe even epochal—change. There are frightening realities surrounding us all over the world, sometimes even in our own villages and towns and cities. We have been lied to and we are continually lied to by everyone, so it seems sometimes, and unfortunately the myth of expertise has been uncovered as simply that: a myth.

How in heaven’s name can we respond to a world where all of the experts are in some way, shape, or form shown to be frauds or liars? Well, you may not be surprised to hear that I believe that the best response to all of this is for all of us to become better storytellers. Because what’s going on very often is narrative-building: out in the political world, out in the ideological world, even in the religious world, of politics and otherwise. The ones who are listened to are the ones who make the best narrative, and the ones who are used and the ones who fall prey to conspiracy theories are those who do not recognize that there are stories being told and that perhaps it would be better if they were to tell their own stories.

Lest that seem too superficial or banal to you, I want to explain my perspective. Who is a storyteller? Well, if you’ve been listening to this podcast, you will know that I’ve been collecting the wisdom of many people who have come before us who suggest things like this, that a storyteller is not simply a teller of tales or a teller of tall tales—a liar, in fact. No, a storyteller, at least according to somebody like Ivan Ilyin, Tolkien, and Lewis, is a prophet, an oracle, someone who pours out truth through a specific medium, and that medium is one that tends to, as I have argued, bypass the rational objections of the brain and of the mind, and go directly into the reality of the heart.

Such a person has an enormous responsibility, to make sure that what comes out of his mouth or through the pen that he writes with or through his computer corresponds with the truth of his heart. This is what we see so little of, I think, in the public square, and I think there is at least a little bit of a referendum on that going on right now, but perhaps not enough of one.

So if we are to become the kinds of storytellers who inspire cultural change—and by the way, you need not be a writer to be a storyteller. You could be anything—you could be a doctor, you could be a politician, you could be a priest, you could be a computer programmer. You can be anyone, because everywhere you will encounter situations where you will have to tell the truth through a story, and every single one of you, I hope, wants to inspire a change in the culture, for the betterment of our country and our situation as Orthodox Christians in it. And I absolutely think we must, all of us, first descend deep inside ourselves before we can do that, and begin the work of cleansing and illumining our own hearts, because only from there can the kinds of stories come out that will inspire others to change.

Now, the holy Fathers have much to say on descending into the heart, and I won’t quote them. Instead, I’m going to read a short essay from my hero, Ivan Ilyin, the Russian philosopher who lived through the Revolution and World War I and World War II. This essay was written in the 1940s, in a truly critical, frightening time for human history, but listen to how much his words resonate with today’s reality. In fact, if I hadn’t told you who wrote it and when, you might think it was written by somebody yesterday. Hopefully you will find consolation in his words, as I did. But hopefully you will also be challenged by them, as I was.

We, the generation of a new age, shouldn’t delude ourselves. The crisis that we suffer now is not only a political or economic one. It is a crisis of spirit. Its reasons go very far back, and, yes, we are talking about ultimate things here. We shouldn’t diminish the tragedy of our time. We have to find within ourselves the necessary courage, and then soberly assess everything that is happening around us. We need to gather our will, look truth directly in the eye, and then stand on the path of renewal. We have to shrug off the petty realities of the everyday and look into the distance to understand where the world is going, what awaits us, and what we have to do to avoid an even worse fate. More than that, to begin a new and glorious life.

But you can only look into the distance by first looking inside yourself. That means that we have to descend into the living depths of our own essence to that spiritual potential, the divine source of which Christ himself informed us. In all the corners of the world, people must come back to themselves, whether that is an individual human being, a small group of people, a parish, an organization, a cultural movement, and so on. We have to concentrate on the ultimate things of our life. We have to plug into them, through the living contemplation of our heart, so that we may come to know how things must be, how things actually are, and what we still lack. And the more seriously, the more sincerely, the more thoroughly we begin this work on ourselves the better it will be for us.

For the difficulties of our time are indescribable, and we can only overcome them when we will reach down to the deepest layers of the human spirit; that is, when we, when people begin their return toward God. Only then can there be an epochal renewal of history. For as we see today, all the roads of the past have been walked already. The previous structure of our common creative cultural act has brought us to utter coldness of heart and to a mechanization of our minds. The hour approaches when we, having come to know the absolute necessity of spiritual renewal, will again begin to seek help from the Savior.

We live in a landmark age. Never before has the dark underbelly of human nature so confidently and so proudly shown itself on the outside. Never before have there been so many obvious attempts to wrest power and to submit others to that power. Never before in human history have there been so many technical advances but also so many weapons of destruction. We are at the turning point, as you can see. We are at its very center. The previous equilibrium is gone.

The worst that is to come we can only oppose, having begun our renewal from within. We will know it for its signs by a kind of illumination that begins to shine forth from people who have already been renewed. This illumination is represented by life-giving goodness, by the contemplation of the heart, by an awakened conscience, and by courageous and calm faith. And until we have awoken within ourselves this spiritual instinct, until we have forced our heart to speak, until we have brought it into movement, we will not be able to touch the deepest levels of our human-divine depth. Only a living heart will begin to send out its rays into the world, and the light that will come from it will be something more than merely physical light.

More and more often we hear voices telling us that the nations will only be saved through some kind of new revelation, as though the old revelation had run itself out, as though Christianity had become obsolete, as though the paths of our Savior, the Son of God, have been all trodden already, as though today’s crisis were a crisis of God, not our own personal crisis, as though the Lord had not revealed enough of himself or had done so too long ago and now he’s suddenly hurrying to fill in the gaps. But in actual fact, we simply were not able to assimilate the revelation given to us. We were not able to live it as we must.

However, no one has yet taken away from us this light of divine revelation. Its rays still shine for us today. And who, if not we, can accept it and direct our lives by its light? We have to find within ourselves an active disposition that will allow us not only to become illumined ourselves but also to provide that illumination to others. Our illumination has to attract others to the same path.

Modern man must come to understand that his fate depends on him becoming a ray of light for the world in all aspects of his life. He must understand that we are talking about the purification and the enlivening of his heart, of that being his creative, self-sacrificial act. After all, the dead, extinguished heart is powerless; it is blind. And when it looks at life, it cannot be expected to see anything good in it. Only the illumined heart is capable of renewing culture. Only in such a heart can new creative ideas arise.

Wow. That’s Ivan Ilyin.

I hope all of you—all of us—will take these words to heart. I honestly believe that this is the best way to effect real change. Let’s all take up these words of Ivan Ilyin, and in whatever we do, in whatever our job is, whether we are storytellers in a technical, professional sense or not, let us take up that mantle so that truth may come out of our mouths, but only after we’ve begun that work of descending deep into our own hearts.

Well, this is the end of season one for this podcast, and season two I hope will be ready by February or March of 2021, most likely. I hope to tackle the vast and wonderful opus of the epic heroic poetry of the Russian tradition, the stories of giant heroes like Svyatogor, Ilya Muromets, and new villains like the dragon Zmey Gorynych and Tugarin Zmey, as well as everyone’s favorite, Nightingale the Robber. I hope you’ll continue on this journey with me.

Thank you for listening. If you’d like to find out more about the exciting and dangerous world of Slavic fairy tales, you might like to check out The Raven’s Son epic fantasy series, which is inspired by these stories. If you sign up for my mailing list, you will receive book one, The Song of the Sirin, for free. Just visit nicholaskotar.com to find out more. You might also be interested in my monthly “Good Books for Great Lives” book club and other exclusive content available at patreon.com/nicholaskotar. This show was edited and its beautiful music is originally composed by Natalie Wilson at nwcomposing.com. In a Certain Kingdom is a listener-supported presentation of Ancient Faith Radio.